Free The Gilgamesh Conspiracy by Jeffrey Fleming Page A

stopped outside an anonymous five storey office block. If he had known that the building housed a division of the secret police he would have been terrified; as it was he was merely apprehensive as the senior of the two policemen escorted him up the chipped marble stairs and into the building.
    An elderly man stopped mopping the floor and stared at the new arrivals. He gave a slightly mad-looking grin and then continued cleaning the stained stonework while muttering quietly to himself. Rashid looked around; in one corner a policeman with a heavy moustache and broad cheeks sat at a table furnished with a telephone and a ledger. Rashid wondered if every minor official in Baghdad strived within the limitations of their physiognomy to look as much as possible like Saddam Hussein. The policeman pulled a ballpoint pen out of a breast pocket and opened the ledger. ‘So who’s this? Which exit will he be leaving from?’
    ‘That depends,’ replied one of his escorts. ‘If he behaves himself we’ll bring him out the front and take him back home. If he doesn’t…’ The policeman paused and slapped Rashid firmly on the back. ‘Well, maybe it’ll be the rear exit for him.’
    ‘Who’s he going to see?’
    ‘Rukan Khalifa.’
    The policeman seated at the desk gave a broad grin. ‘Ah…so, could be out of the window then. I’ll mark him down with a large question mark. What’s his name?’
    ‘Rashid Hamsin.’
    ‘Take him through.’
    Rashid presumed that the policemen were indulging in some ponderous humour with their talk of back exits and windows but he found it difficult to hide his reluctance as he was ushered through a pair of swing doors and into an elevator. The car carried them up to the top floor and he was led to a door upon which one of his escorts knocked.
    ‘Come in.’
    The policeman opened the door and shoved him inside and then closed the door behind him. Inside the room was a table at which two men in military style fatigues were seated. One of them was small and dapper and he was smiling at Rashid. The other was large and grim faced. He merely pointed to the seat on the other side of the table. Rashid reluctantly sat down. ‘You are Rashid Hamsin?’ asked the small man.
    ‘Uh…yes.’
    ‘My name is Rukan Khalifa.’ He indicated his big colleague. ‘This is Tariq Kayal.’ The big man nodded briefly. ‘I will call you Rashid, if that’s alright?
    ‘Er…of course.’
    ‘Good!’ he said. ‘We once started questioning a man and he kept denying that he knew anything. We were all beginning to get rather angry, but then we realised we were questioning the wrong man. There were apologies all round.’ Rukan grinned at him. Rashid looked around the room. The walls were bare apart from a picture of Saddam Hussein. On the table was a clipboard with a ball point pen and a telephone. On the floor between the two men was a large briefcase. Rukan reached inside and pulled out a small tape recorder and placed it on the desk.
    ‘So, a few questions.’ Rukan smiled again.
    ‘I’m happy to answer any questions,’ Rashid offered.
    ‘Excellent. So tell us everything that happened from the day of the protest in London. Start with when you woke up.’
    Rashid began to relate his story, haltingly at first as he saw the two other men staring at him. He glanced out of the window where a few wispy clouds were passing through the blue rectangle of the sky. He recalled more clearly the day he had spent with the English woman, and he described how he had been happy to invite her back to his flat.
    ‘So you hoped to screw the infidel bitch?’
    Rashid was shocked by the sudden gross interruption and he looked in alarm at Rukan. He was smiling at him but the smile had an unpleasant sneering quality.
    ‘No. I just wanted to be friendly.’
    ‘Crap! You’ve been in England long enough to become a traitor to the Republic.’
    ‘No, that’s not true!’ said Rashid and he realised at last that he was being